


Worth a Shot

by dreams_for_spring



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Hell they barely even know each other's names, Humor, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Karaoke, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, So many 80s tropes, Tongue-in-cheek, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, or is it...?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-11-16 13:49:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20830703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreams_for_spring/pseuds/dreams_for_spring
Summary: He's looking at her with this queer combination of quiet amusement and overwhelming interest. His body is slightly leaned towards her in his chair beside her, one elbow balanced on the table. His eyes look almost black in the dim light, and it's nearly impossible to tell where his pupils end and his irises begin. It makes him look wide eyed, intent, almost innocent.Except the way he's looking at her is anything but innocent.--What do you do when you meet a guy like Jon Snow at what might be the world's worst bar?





	1. A Sucker for the Classics

**Author's Note:**

> They say the best cure for writer's block is to write something else for fun, so here we are...

* * *

"Do you come here often?"

Sansa rolls her eyes at the question and looks around the shitty karaoke bar she's in, down at the poorly made vodka martini she is drinking (with absolutely the worst excuse for a lemon twist in it), then back up at the man who had proffered this ridiculous question.

"Do I look like the kind of person who comes here often?"

The man chuckles, takes the given opportunity to look her up and down with a raised eyebrow, and helps himself to a seat at her table. "Not really, no." She tries to ignore the effect his thick northern accent has on her, and to instead focus on the stage ahead.

Her friends Margaery and Jeyne are up there on stage belting out Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody", and she's been left alone babysitting their drinks. She had been thankful for the quiet reprieve. While normally she loves belting out the classics, they've been going at it all night and her feet are aching, her head pounding from the loud music and cheap alcohol.

She's preparing herself to tell the man who sat down beside her without permission to go ahead and stand right back up, but when she glances towards him to say just that her breath catches in her throat. He's looking at her with this queer combination of quiet amusement and overwhelming interest. His body is slightly leaned towards her in his chair beside her, one elbow balanced on the table. His eyes look almost black in the dim light, and it's nearly impossible to tell where his pupils end and his irises begin. It makes him look wide eyed, intent, almost innocent.

Except the way he's looking at her is anything but innocent. His eyes are searing a trail down from her bright red lips to the low collar of her deep blue dress, pausing to take in the tops of her breasts peeking from underneath the fabric. She feels exposed under his gaze, yet it's also thrilling watching his eyes pass over her, dark and hungry.

This man with the hungry eyes has a surprisingly kind face, except it's almost masked by a close-cropped beard. He's biting his lower lip, and his fingernails are scratching at the label on his beer. It's the only indication she has that he might actually be nervous, and it's hopelessly endearing. His hair is a little long, hanging in soft, loose curls of dark chocolate around his face, and she can't help but wonder if it's as soft as it looks, how it would feel to grab hold of those curls...

So what if he's handsome though? And so what if that's a nearly criminal understatement? So what if his forearms are poking out from the rolled up sleeves of a crisp button up, and they look lean and toned and strong?

It isn't fair that this man has decided to sit here, Sansa decides. This man, who hasn't even introduced himself is sitting calmly beside her, practically eye-fucking her.

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Do I meet your stringent criteria to sit beside you, or should I get up and leave?"

_Oh no, have I been eye-fucking him too? _

Sansa bites her lip and tries to focus intently on his face, to avoid looking at the more alluring, more dangerous parts of him. His eyes are slightly crinkled in amusement, and the creases that form in the corners are impossibly cute. He looks like he smiles well and often, and that sends warmth through her, makes her want to smile too.

"I should warn you, it's girls’ night, and my friend Marg just broke up with her boyfriend. You're likely to be subject to many choice expletives if you stay."

But all he does is shrug in acceptance and glance back at the stage. Marg begins to belt out the chorus, Jeyne providing back up vocals.

_"Oh, I wanna dance with somebodyyyyyy,_

_I wanna feel the heat with somebodyyyyyy."_

She watches his lip twitch in amusement, before he fixes his gaze back on her. "You're not on the stage though. Does that mean you don't want to dance with somebody, or that you already have someone to dance with?"

He's quick with his words, she'll give him that. And if he'd just stop scratching at that beer label, maybe she could believe he does this all the time. But would that make it better, or worse? "I'm not dating anyone, no. Not that it's any of your business."

"Lucky me." He leans forward just a little bit more, and now she is absolutely sure he is staring at her lips. "My name is Jon."

"I didn't ask."

"Does that mean you won't tell me yours?" He sounds sad though, reminding her of when her dog was a puppy and he'd whine for attention, and she can feel her resolve weaken. She's used to guys hitting on her, but not like this. He's throwing her off her game, and those damn eyes are so disarming, practically mesmerizing.

She takes a deep breath, looking out at Marg and Jeyne, who are now giving her a not so subtle thumbs up. Jon looks from her to them and lets out a quiet snort, though it's too soon to say if it's derision or further amusement. She sighs, what's the worst that can happen? It's just her name.

"My name is Sansa."

"Sansa." He tries the name out on his tongue, and she decides immediately that her name has never sounded better than it did just then. His voice is thick like honey, with just a little hint of roughness owing to his accent. 

"What are you drinking, Sansa?"

"The world's worst vodka martini." She makes a decisive decision to finish the martini in front of him. It's a challenge, but she wants to know if he gets that, if he sees it too.

"You want another?"

The idea of having to suffer through another one of these abominations being peddled as a martini makes Sansa queasy, "Gods no. What are you drinking?"

"Black crow brew, it's local. Might be the only thing here that's drinkable."

Sansa takes the opportunity, takes a leap of faith. She reaches over for his beer, letting her fingers brush against his as she grasps the bottle. It's electric, the feeling of his skin against hers. It's a little rough, lightly calloused, brushing softly against her own. She feels a jolt of _something _indistinguishable pass through her, and she meets his gaze to see he feels it too. She notices his adam’s apple move up and down as he swallows hard.

_No, he doesn't do this a lot. _

She decides that's a welcome piece of knowledge.

He relents and allows her to take the bottle from his grasp. She brings it to her lips and lets the cool liquid pour into her mouth. It's not the worst, definitely drinkable. Hoppy, a little sour, but not bad at all. She licks her lips of the remaining beer and hands it back to him, maintaining eye contact. "I wouldn't say no to one of those." _I wouldn't say no to you._

"Coming up."

He stands up to go to the bar, and Sansa can feel her eyes following him, tracing the lines of his body through his dark jeans; which by the way are almost sinful the way they sit around his ass and thighs. And if it weren't abundantly clear before, it is now, he definitely works out. A lot.

He's at the bar ordering when he turns back to look at her, and she knows he's caught her looking, she knows she's shown her hand. He flashes her a smirk. And just like that, she wonders if she's lost the upper hand, if she's no longer leading this dance, whatever it is.

The song finishes before he can come back to the table, and Marg and Jeyne saunter back in impossibly high heels. Normally Marg would label them her Fuck-Me Pumps, but tonight they're her Fuck-You Pumps. As in fuck you Joffrey, you cheating bastard.

The track music comes back on in the background, and it's such a sharp contrast to the upbeat karaoke music of thirty seconds prior. The new music is a dark, heavy melody, with a beat that vibrates her to her core. The dance floor begins to pick up, hot and dirty. The crowd here is a curious mix of what appear to be off-duty cops and drunken cougars, and it’s a heady mixture. Sansa makes a mental note to _never _let Jeyne pick their destination ever again. 

They plunk themselves down in their chairs. Jon looks back to her from the bar, his face faltering for a second. He turns back to the barkeep, who is wearing a t-shirt that says, ‘_Liquor might not solve all problems, but it's worth a shot’_, which has coincidentally also become Marg's anthem tonight.

"Sansaaaa, who is that?" Marg hums, taking one of her loose brown ringlets and curling it between her fingers.

"He says his name is Jon."

"We said no guys tonight," Jeyne chimes in, but she's smiling widely. "pretty sure he's a guy."

"It's not like I asked him to sit down, he just kind of did." Sansa turns back to him to see he has a tray of drinks in his hand.

He deposits the tray on the table. "I didn't know what you ladies wanted. There's beers, and-" he squints at Marg "water, if you want."

Marg scoffs and grabs a can of beer, cracking it open. "Water will be for tomorrow, Jon." She takes a sip. "But thank you all the same."

Sansa tries to suppress a giggle as a small blush creeps across his face, and he runs one hand through his hair bashfully. Men shouldn't be allowed to be so handsome and so cute at the same time.

He recuperates and hands her her beer bottle and an opener. She cracks it open and takes a long sip. His eyes are intent on her lips around the rim, following the path of the beer down her throat as she swallows, but then again those eyes don't seem to miss much.

"As good as you remember?"

She licks her lips. "Almost, but it's like there's something missing..." _Knowing your lips were on the bottle rim just seconds before_, she thinks, trying to push down visions of his soft, full lips elsewhere, trailing down her body...

He smirks, again. And it's not fair, it's really not. She's supposed to be the demure seductress tonight. She worked so hard to craft this appearance, picked her dress and heels so carefully. She had been ready to kick down any guy who came close. But not him, no he's got her wrapped around his finger, and he barely even seems to know it.

"Well, I should get back to my friends," he points to 3 guys in the corner, "Thanks for letting me buy you a round." 

She feels her heart sink in her chest at the idea of this man, _Jon,_ leaving so soon. She doesn't know anything about him, and for some reason she really wants to. She wonders if he can see the disappointment on her face.

He goes to turn back but stops himself last minute, looking unabashedly unsure of himself, completely vulnerable. She wonders then if he's _ever_ done anything like this before. "Unless... Would you want to dance with me?" he asks her, with those puppy dog eyes.

Her feet are screaming a resounding no, but the devil on her shoulder, and Marg and Jeyne together push her up from her chair. "She'd love to, Jon." Marg says, smiling that wicked smile of hers. She winks at Sansa. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Sansa rolls her eyes, she'd be hard pressed to think of anything Marg wouldn't do, especially right now.

He lets his hand intertwine with hers, and yes, he definitely works with his hands. She's not sure why that's so appealing, but his large hand encircles hers, the rough skin teasing her own, and the sensation sends pinpricks down her spine. 

They walk to the dance floor slowly, and on the way he leans over to her ear. Her hair is down, hanging in flowing waves of auburn, but she can still feel his hot breath against her neck, against her ear. She shivers involuntarily, feeling her body leaning back into his own. "I'm sorry I took you away from your friends." His voice is low and deep, almost more a rumble in his chest than spoken words. "You just looked so goddamn beautiful and sad sitting there, I couldn’t help myself."

They reach the dancefloor, and Sansa is so utterly shaken by him, by this man who she cannot peg, cannot put into one of her boxes labelled "fuckboy" or "jock" or "creep", that instead she is tempted to put him in the box labelled "knight in shining armour". It takes a lot of honesty on her part to admit that maybe he did save her from what was quickly becoming a terrible night tonight (no offense, Marg), and she's never been good at being honest with herself. 

His arms circle around her waist, pulling her close, and her own loop around his neck unbidden. His hands are sitting on her hips, and it's like he's moving her, driving her body to move in time with his. The bass of the music is pounding in her head, unrelenting and overwhelming, but his hands keep pace with the beat, moving her and him in unison.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, her body moves closer to his until she can feel the fabric of his starched shirt rustle against the front of her soft cotton dress, his hot breath against the crook of her neck, his jeans scraping against her bare thighs. He smells of fresh linen and pine aftershave, and it's damn near addicting. She wants to lean into him, let her head fall into his shoulders, and let him take her somewhere that isn't here. 

He groans softly as her hips gyrate against his, and she can _feel _the effect she’s having on him, and she is pleasantly surprised. His hands are wandering, tracing the curves of her waist, and pulling her dangerously close, so close she can’t think anymore. All there is are his hands, which are holding her against him for dear life, and his mouth, which is now placing soft open-mouthed kisses to her neck, leaving her mewling and rubbing herself against him like a damn cat in heat. And it would be embarrassing, except it feels too good now to care. She can feel his lips curling into a smile against her neck, can feel him guiding her movements against his thigh, giving her some semblance of relief from her own desire. A desire for a man she knows nothing about, except his name.

It's so hot in this bar she can feel sweat beginning to bead on her forehead, and the music is so loud it's practically permeating her soul. And gods, that tongue of his is just _fucking magic_, and it's licking up and down her neck, pausing to tease her whenever he finds _that spot_ that makes her whimper into his neck. 

She lets her own hands wander from around his neck to his broad shoulders and finally into his hair. It's exactly as soft as she pictured it, and he leans into her touch, his cheek flush to her hand. They make eye contact once more, except this time they're separated by only a few inches, and this time he _must know _how he is making her feel. 

His eyes are so dark in this light it's like drowning in ink, and her heart skips a beat when she notices his eyes wandering once more to her lips. He leans in to kiss her, and she lets his lips capture her own. The thrill of this perfect stranger's lips against hers, while his hands are roaming her body is intoxicating. He tastes of mint gum that is trying desperately to cover the taste of the cheap beer, and she thinks she must taste the same. But none of that matters because his lips are so soft against hers, gentle yet forceful. He pulls away with a heated stare on his face, and in this moment it seems like rather than sating them, that kiss only served to whet their appetites. 

“Do you know you are the most beautiful girl in this bar?” He growls into her ear, causing her to sink further into him, his hot breath a brand against the sensitive skin of her neck.

Yeah, it's true she’s a sucker for the classics, and Jon seems to be playing right into that.

\-------


	2. Shot Through the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later that night, and the morning after ;)

“Take your shot, Jon.”

He knows he should be listening to his friends, and he knows they were saying _something_, but in this precise moment, what they’re saying isn’t nearly as interesting as the girl sitting two tables over. She’s wearing this skin-tight blue dress, and even though he’s trying not to stare, he can see every curve of her body.

She’s too pretty by far to be in a place like this, but that isn’t what’s drawing his attention to her. What’s drawing him in are those sad, blue eyes, and the way she’s using her swizzle stick to poke at a lemon peel in her drink. It’s the way she looks almost wistfully at her friends on stage, and then around the bar and its’ questionable patrons. He can’t help but think that she looks the way he feels, like he doesn’t belong here, like he doesn’t really want to be here.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by his friend and co-worker Edd, who is pushing a shot of whisky across the table, closer to him.

“Take your shot, Jon,” his other co-worker Grenn repeats.

“Oy, he’s too busy looking at the pretty girl Grenn. Can’t blame him though. If I looked like him, I’d be off chasing pretty girls too.” Edd pipes in. "I mean I still do, they just don't chase me back, eh Jon?"

Jon frowns obstinately and takes the shot of what he now realizes is unbearably cheap whisky. It burns and stings his throat as it goes down, and he is now absolutely convinced he will have a hangover tomorrow. At least he’s off shift and can sleep it off. He washes the shot down with a swig of beer and mentally notes to blame Grenn and Edd for the pain he will no doubt feel in the morning.

“Why do you think she’s so sad?” Jon asks, scratching at the label on his beer absentmindedly.

His oldest friend Sam looks at the girl, then back at Jon, face twisted in thought. “Maybe she wants to go home? Maybe she isn’t having a good time here.”

Jon looks around at the faded wallpaper walls, at the cracked wood tables with a decade of old beer and condensation rings on them. He looks over at the stage, which is really more of a platform, at the shitty karaoke system with a single disco ball strobe light, and he winces. _How could anyone have a good time here?_

It’s the closest bar to their work, and they just got off a marathon 14-hour shift. They had all needed to unwind as soon as possible, which explains why they’re there. But the real question is why the woman with the big blue eyes, and the perfect blue dress, with waves of auburn hair that shine in the iridescent neon light, why is she here?

_It’s a gift from the gods_, Jon thinks, biting his lip. Would he dare? Could he dare?

The girls on stage have begun a rendition of “I Wanna Dance with Somebody”, and he takes it as a sign because he would _really_ love to dance with her. He takes a deep, resolute breath and plunges in headfirst.

And she says yes.

This beautiful woman, _Sansa, _says yes to dancing with him. She’s even more beautiful when she dances, all her curves moving in time with the music, those copper waves shining under the terrible strobe light. Finally, blessedly, she smiles, and it’s all he ever wanted. He wishes he could take her away from here, take her somewhere she deserves to be. But if they have to be here, he’s glad he can at least make her happy.

He lets his hands wander those dangerous curves, because he can’t help himself, and gods she leans into him just so. He feels his body respond to hers, lets his head lean down into the crook of her neck, breathing her scent in deep. It's lightly floral and citrus, and positively addicting. The way her body moves against him pulls him in, and she has him completely wrapped around her finger. He wonders if she knows that in this moment, he’d do anything for her.

Something about the way she smiles is innocent and free, her teeth flashing bright. It makes Jon feel like she should be protected - not because she needs to be - but because he wants to. When he leans in closer, he can see the remnants of freckles smattering her cheeks, and he wants to kiss each one, memorize them all.

He can’t help himself from guiding her movements ever closer to his own body, can’t help himself from pressing his own body against hers, from enjoying her warmth and the way she grinds herself against what is now a very hard erection. He hopes she doesn’t notice, hopes she doesn’t hear him groan in enjoyment, because the way she is moving against him, the way her body looks is just heavenly. Her eyes are now focused on his, and they look as hungry as he feels.

Jon takes the plunge and leans in to kiss her. Her lips are soft and warm, and he deepens the kiss, pulling her body into his. His hands roam upwards to twine through her hair, holding her face close to his with both hands. She leans further into him, and he’s now absolutely sure there can’t be a single atom between them. The air feels heavy, the bass of the music reverberating through them both.

He pulls away, and immediately misses her lips, her touch, everything about her.

“Do you know you are the most beautiful girl in this bar?” 

And he knows it’s cheesy, but he can’t help it. She’s bringing this strange side out in him, where all he wants to do is make her smile, even if it’s at his own expense.

Sansa bites her lower lip and giggles at him. It makes her look even more beautiful, and he decides he’ll do whatever it takes to keep her like this all night, if she lets him. Put a fool’s cap on him and call him Florian the Fool. He would sing a hundred Madonna or Queen songs, he would sing that gods awful song from Grease, and even sing the part of the girl for her, just to see her smile again.

The song changes to something even heavier, even slower, and Jon can feel her pace slowing. Her hips are undulating slowly against him, in a tempo that is so deliciously punishing for him it makes his cock strain hard against his jeans. He wonders if anyone has ever been unmanned by a dance before, because he is damn near close.

It’s then that she looks at him with a cheeky kind of grin and spins herself around so her ass is right up against him. It’s tracing this terribly tantalizing pattern up and down and around, and he has never been harder in his life, has never wanted, _needed_ it more than now. He begins to wonder if maybe she isn’t as innocent as he thinks, and that thought thrills him.

What would it be like to push her against the wall of this bar, to push that pretty blue dress up and see what’s underneath? What colour are her panties, what does she look like when she reaches her peak?

“Fuckkk”, he groans out automatically, as she lets her ass push even harder against his manhood.

She turns her head around towards him and gives him this devious smile, and his heart stops. _Dynamite with a laser beam_, he thinks, as he lets his hands work their way across her hips and stomach, pulling her ever closer. She arches her head back against his chest, and it feels like her entire body is draped against him, enveloping him in her, drowning him.

He leans in, letting his chin run against the expanse of her neck, his beard scraping lightly against her soft, creamy skin, teasing her. She lets out a quiet moan, and it’s everything he hoped it would be and more.

In his mind, there’s really only two ways this night will end. Either this auburn goddess in the tight blue dress lets him take her home, or he’s probably going to explode. _Those are the only two options at this point_, he thinks, gritting his teeth against the assault of her ass against his groin.

But how do you ask a perfect, gorgeous girl to go home to your shitty one-bedroom apartment that you never even had time to properly decorate because you work like a goddamn dog? She’s too good for that, too good for him. He closes his eyes, memorizing this moment, just in case this is as good as life gets, and it’s all downhill from here.

The song finishes, and she turns around and laughs breathlessly with him. His hands are still firmly planted on her hips, and he can’t help but gulp because the way she’s looking at him tells him she’s thinking the night is going to end how he wants it to end too.

“I live pretty close to here…” Her voice is like a symphony, a god damn angel’s song, and it’s made even better by the way she blushes slightly as she says it. _How else can I make you blush, _he thinks, picturing all manner of ungodly things.

“Do you wanna…”_ Grow a pair, Snow._ He kicks himself internally. “Do you wanna get out of here?” He finally manages, his voice hoarse and strained.

Her eyes flit briefly back to Marg and Jeyne, who he had completely forgotten even existed. If he’s being honest, he had forgotten where they were, what the song was, and everything except for Sansa herself. He unwillingly drags his eyes from the swell of her breasts - which are still heaving slightly from the exertion of dancing - and looks back at the hens. They are giggling and whispering in each other’s ears, and he can feel Sansa deflating, embarrassed. He pulls her in close, pausing to briefly breath in her intoxicating scent, and dips his lips so close to her ear he can feel her heat.

“_They’re just jealous”, _he whispers, and the gods must be on his side because he can feel her shiver against him.

She looks him dead in the eyes and licks her lips. “Let’s make them even more jealous.”

She grabs his hand tight in hers and pulls him from the open space masquerading as a dance floor, and back to the table. For a second he’s afraid she will sit down once again, and while he’s not opposed to sitting with these girls again, he’s far more interested in something that happens in a slightly more supine position. Thankfully, she only pauses to grab her purse, hug her friends good night, and then links her hand back in his once more.

“Care to walk a lady home, Jon?” She asks with that same devious smirk of hers, and instead his mind replies that he hopes she’s less a lady and more of whatever she was on the dancefloor, later this evening. He fights, and succeeds not to say that out loud.

She says she only lives 3 blocks away, and he wants to wait that long, he’s trying to wait that long. He knows that fucking a girl you barely know against an alley wall is uncouth, not to mention punishable by law. But how is he supposed to focus on the law and common decency when she’s walking like that, her hips swaying back and forth, and he can see everything.

Suddenly, he sees something he hasn’t noticed before. That dress is skin tight, like a second skin, and there isn’t a single panty line. His throat parches, his eyes focus on her ass, trying to will himself to see those lines but he never does. A dark, fantastic thought passes by his mind; _What if she isn’t wearing any?_

She pulls him to the entrance of a quaint four storey building, one of those converted industrial ones with condos inside with vaulted ceilings and exposed concrete, and a browny-red brick exterior. “This is my place.” Her face is still confident, but her voice wavers just slightly, and Jon begins to worry if she’s nervous, if she’s unsure.

Every bone in his body is scolding him, telling him not to say what he knows he needs to say. He takes a deep breath, holding her hand tight in his. “I could just go home, if you want me to. But I’d really like to stay.”

Sansa’s face lifts into one of her bright smiles that he swears could light up the sky, and she unlocks the front door. “Come on, my place is on the fourth floor.”

_Thank the gods_, Jon thinks, absolutely certain that if she would have said no he would have had to throw himself into an icebath lest he implode.

They barely make it inside the condo before Jon pushes her against the door, pinning her in place. His body is moving of its own volition, caressing her, leaving trails of kisses up and down her neck. He notes her moans of pleasure when he begins to lightly bite at the pulse point of her neck, and continues his assault, smiling as she bucks her hips against him for friction.

He lets his hands trace down that beautiful dress of hers, until he reaches the hem, and his curiousity gets the best of him. His fingers wind their way up the hem, along her soft, smooth thighs. Wherever he touches though is just bare skin, and he finds himself looking her straight in the eyes. She’s panting heavily, her eyes dark with want, and he lets his fingers move ever higher while maintaining eye contact.

As his fingers rise to her pussy, he finds that he was definitely right, and Sansa has not been wearing panties all night. “Naughty girl” he growls out, watching her close her eyes and moan loudly as he lets a finger dip into her folds, and she grinds into him, desperate for the friction, for relief.

Jon inserts another finger, watching her cry out in pleasure, her head laid back against the door of the condo. He says a silent prayer that the door is soundproof, or that her neighbours aren’t home.

“Oh god Jon, please…” She breathes out, her hands moving to the buckle of his pants.

And he’s tempted, really he is. But, there’s something else he really, really wants to do first.

Jon drops to his knees, and hikes that blue dress up to expose her to him, his fingers still pumping in and out, giving her the pleasure she needs. She’s so wet for him, and she smells so sweet. Her mound is covered in a trim triangle of auburn curls, and it’s just all so perfect and all for him.

He lets his tongue slide up and down her folds, tasting her. Her arousal is just a little salty, just a little sweet, and completely addicting. He wonders how long she’ll let him stay here, how many orgasms she can have in a row.

His tongue moves up slowly, tracing a tortuous path to her clit. Sansa cries out loudly once more and pushes his head where she needs it, hiking her leg up over one of his shoulders. Her boldness only serves to make him want her more, and he licks at her harder, faster, his fingers pumping in rhythm with his tongue. He can feel her walls begin to tighten around his fingers, can feel her body stiffening, and he knows she’s close. His fingers curl just slightly to hit that soft spot, and she screams for him, loud and breathy, falling into her climax.

Jon grins, and presses soft kisses to the insides of her thighs, wondering if she’ll let him do that again to her. He was right, she is fucking beautiful when she comes, and he plans to see that sight several more times before the night is over.

He looks up to see her giving him a wicked smile, her eyelids hooded, hair wild and askew, her breasts rising and falling as she pants. “I need you to fuck me.”

“Now?” He’s not sure if he’s ready to give up on worshiping her pussy yet, but his lower half wins in that argument, and he beings to lift himself back off his knees.

Her arms reach down to guide him back up to her, kissing him, and he knows she must be tasting her own arousal. All she does is softly mewl into his mouth as she kisses him. “Right now” she breathes into his ear, and he will not be saying no.

She’s cupping his cock through his jeans, unbuckling his belt, and he’s never done anything quite like this before, but gods he’ll do this all night with her if she lets him. She releases his cock from it’s confines, and now it’s hard as a rock, a small drop of pre-cum glistening on the tip.

And while Jon Snow may not be a perfect gentlemen, he was a boy scout, and he always comes prepared. He reaches into his jean pockets and grabs a condom, noting the coy squint Sansa is giving him as he does it. Before he can even get his shoes and jeans off, her hand is wrapped around his cock, and she is looking hungrily at it, at him. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips swollen from their kissing, and she licks those sinful lips.

He sheathes his cock with the condom, and lifts her legs up around his waist, pinning her against the apartment door. She locks them around his middle, and he lines his cock up with her entrance. He guides his length in slowly, letting her adjust to his size. She’s so fucking tight and wet, and it’s all for him.

“Fuck Sansa, gods you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressed against the door in the space between her shoulders and head. From here he can lick and bite at her neck, making her moan even louder. His hands have found purchase on the cheeks of her ass, allowing him to move her body up and down his length.

“Jonnnn,” she cries out, grinding into him, pushing him deeper within her until he’s filled her to the hilt.

“Does it feel good?” Her hands are grasping tightly at his back through the shirt that he’s still wearing, and she’s moaning like a damn sex kitten, but he needs to hear this.

“Yes, gods yes,” she manages to cry out in between moans.

He begins to pound faster into her, ignoring the sound of the door jostling in it’s hinges. Her legs are tightening around him, and he can feel that they’re both close now. He reaches one hand down to her clit and begins to rub in fast, haphazard circles.

When she comes, her pussy clenches around his cock so hard he loses the ability to breathe. All he sees are stars, all he hears is the rush of his own blood in his ears, and he spills inside her with a loud groan of pleasure and relief.

Sansa’s legs uncurl from him and return to the ground, though she’s still unsteady on her feet. She laughs loudly, “My neighbours are going to hate me.”

Jon places an almost chaste kiss to her lips, considering what they’ve just done. “I find it hard to believe that anyone could hate you” he murmurs, before he moves to finally take his shoes and jeans off.

Because let’s be honest, once is not enough, and they will not be leaving the bedroom the rest of the night.

\-- 

Jon wakes the next morning with absolutely the worst hangover, but its being soothed by Sansa beside him, the reassuring sounds of her breath a balm against the pounding of his head. He turns towards her, gathering her into his arms sleepily. She leans back into him, relaxing in his arms. Even now, she smell divine, like sex and rosewater.

In that moment, his phone rings, pulling them from their morning reverie. He wishes he could put it down, not answer it and just stay with Sansa all day, but he can’t. He picks it up to check the ID, and sure enough it’s work. He sighs and picks up the phone, walking into her living room so as not to disturb her. They’re probably offering a paid duty, and he can’t say no to time and a half.

Sure enough, dispatch is asking him to pick up an 8-hour tonight, and he acquieses. The hangover should pass by then. He turns around to see Sansa standing in front of him in the living room, dressed only in his dress shirt. It looks much better on her than it ever has on him, and he decides to donate all his shirts to her to wear in perpetuity.

Except, the expression on her face is night and day from how it was just minutes before. She looks pale as a sheet, and her eyes are squinting at him in a mixture of horror and confusion.

“Paid duty?” She twists her face and begins to chew at the inside of her cheek. “Are you a paramedic, or a doctor?”

Jon shakes his head uncomfortably, he had been hoping to not have this conversation like this, him in only his boxers, her in just his shirt. _The optics aren’t great_, he thinks, but there’s not much he can do now.

“No, I’m a cop.”

Sansa looks ready to faint. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. My dad is going to kill me.”

Jon looks back at her in confusion. “Why? Does he hate cops?”

She shakes her head, incredulously, ignoring his question. “What division do you work at?”

“This one… 12 division.”

“Oh gods… Oh gods… He’s going to kill you too.”

Jon looks around the condo in bewilderment and freezes in his tracks when he sees a family photo. In the middle of the photo is a middle-aged man, holding a younger Sansa’s shoulders, and smiling widely. And all that would be fine, except the man staring back at him in the photo is his boss, Captain Ned Stark.

Jon reels, gulping loudly, and looks at Sansa, who is laughing in horror at their predicament.

“I’m going to die by friendly fire.” 

\-------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI I practically cackled as I wrote that twist. 
> 
> I may also want to write a third chapter where they're trying to sneak around Ned and not get caught, since I still am hopelessly blocked on my other story... Let me know what you think!


	3. Under Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes to visit her father at the division. Yup, that's the only reason, definitely not to catch a glimpse of a certain someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there are no fewer than 4 80s song/popculture references in this absolute filth
> 
> Also, my attempts to scrabble together a plot failed, so take it for the unabashed porn w/o plot that it is.

"You're dating your one night stand?!" Marg asks over the phone, with just a hint of haughty judgement, and Sansa has to hold her tongue on trying to defend herself by saying that dating your one night stand is actually probably better than just leaving it as a one night stand.  
  
Instead Sansa focuses on a large purple-red stain on the carpet in her bedroom. Jon had spilled her glass of wine onto the carpet in the heat of the moment one night last week when he'd come by just after his shift. He'd tried to apologize for making the mess, had tried to clean it up. Instead though, she had pushed him backwards onto the bed, and sat so she was straddling his hips. His face had been awash with confusion and that ravenous hunger he always gets for her, and soon enough his fingers had made their way to her thighs, gripping her tightly, grinding her against his rapidly hardening length.  
  
"Well I don't know if we're dating, officially." Because that would only complicate things further, and they're already pretty god damn complicated, seeing as her dad is Jon Snow's Captain. And while part of her wants to think it's better that Ned Stark isn't Jon's direct superior, it's actually ten times worse because her father is Jon's boss' boss.  
  
So they do anything and everything to avoid the 'are we dating' conversation, because that conversation inevitably leads them to the conclusion that they are doomed, and Ned Stark will lynch Jon if he ever finds out.  
  
Sansa was Ned's first daughter, and she was ever the lady, ever doting and loving. He returns that love in kind with a ruthless sort of protectionism that borders on overbearing. While he isn't a terribly tall man, he has stern northern features and a stolid expression always on his face. Between that and the gun collection, he had successfully fended off no fewer than three of her former boyfriends.  
  
But what _was_ Jon Snow then? She bit her lip, contemplating the thought.  
  
"Sansa, you guys need to have the talk."  
  
This might be the first time Marg has ever been the voice of reason, and it grates against Sansa. So she makes a decision. Why this one, she'll never be able to say. Perhaps she is tempting fate, but she needs to know if whatever this was they had was coming to an end, or if there was something else, something real there.  
  
"You're right Marg," _there's a first for everything_, "I gotta go now... Love ya!"  
  
"Love ya too Sansa, take care of you."  
  
Sansa formulates a plan to force Jon's hand. Looking back, she will not be able to tell you why she thought it was a good plan, why she thought it would end any differently than every other time she had seen Jon in the past three weeks.  
  
She will definitely never admit that she wore a very specific white cotton dress with pretty pink flowers on it. No, this was just the first clean dress in her closet. And no, this wasn't the dress that Jon had fucked her in at his apartment last week, the one he had told her made her look too innocent by far... except it was.  
  
So wearing that dress, and going to visit him at work while both he and her father were on shift was actually a terrible plan, or maybe just terribly enticing.  
  
Sansa spends the morning baking chocolate chip cookies for the division, and for her father. She has done this a few times before, so there no reason for anyone to believe anything is amiss. Hell, she doesn't even know if Jon will be at division, he might be on the road or at a call. She’s not entirely sure if that’s what she wants though.  
  
She packs up 3 dozen of her finest cookies and grabs an Uber. In the car, she's trying to psych herself up, trying to tell herself everything is the same as it ever was, except in her mind all she can see is the way that Jon had looked at her that first night and every time they'd seen each other since. _What are we doing? What am I doing?_  
  
12 division is a squat, grey, nondescript building just outside of the downtown core. It holds a lot of memories, both bad and good, but it’s been nearly a year since the last time Sansa has dropped by to visit her father at work. It’s hard sometimes to see him here, where he has to be brash and imposing. It reminds her of the time he ran Joffrey from their house after he had kissed her without permission. And while the end result was that Joffrey never bothered her again, that moment of vulnerability was one she preferred not to relive. She didn’t like needing protection, she preferred self-sufficiency.

She hops out of the Uber and walks up the concrete path to the front door. She’s done this a dozen times, yet this time there are butterflies in her stomach that are fluttering so violently they seem to be threatening to burst forth from her mouth. She steels herself, tells herself this is a good plan (but if she were being honest with herself, she’d have to admit it wasn’t).

She walks through the front door and up to the reception desk, to the middle-aged man and woman who are busy filling out nondescript paperwork and typing loudly on their computers. There are several chairs on the walls of the room, and the people sitting in those chairs are staring at her like she’s meat, and she knows instantly she’s made a terrible miscalculation.

“I brought cookies for the division” she croaks out, thrusting the large box forward as if it could hide the blush creeping across her cheeks.

The man looks up from his paperwork and at her, giving her a tired smile. “Hi Sansa, haven’t seen you in a long time. How are you doing?” He takes the box and opens it up, grabbing a cookie from inside. He tilts the box towards his partner and she grabs one as well.

She chews at her lip. “I’ve been good, just finishing off my undergrad this year, then probably off to grad school.”

The man nods nonchalantly, politely, and returns the lid to the box, handing it back to her. She is now convinced that her attire is entirely inappropriate, that her pretext for being here is hopelessly thin, but it’s too late now.  
  
The man buzzes her through into the bullpen, and instantly half the room’s eyes whip up from their computers to her standing there with a box of cookies in her hands. She holds the box tightly in front of her, as though it will grant her protection and tries to pull together a bright smile. She walks as proudly as she can towards her father’s office, trying to ignore more hungry stares from the younger detectives.

Before she can even knock, she can see his eyes flitting up to her through the glass door. He has the eyes of a hawk and the intuition of a wolf. It’s why he became captain at the age of 40, why he’s still captain all these years later. He makes a small gesture with his hand, beckoning her to enter. She carefully places her hand on the handle, not sure why she’s so nervous, why her heart is racing.

“Hi dad, I had some free time today so I thought I’d bring some cookies by for everyone.” She drops the box on his desk between them. He looks down at the box, then up at her. _Something_ flashes by his eyes, before his eyebrows unfurrow and he grins, grabbing for the lid of the box.

“That’s very sweet of you Sansa, I’m sure everyone has missed you stopping by, and missed you bringing them treats even more.” He grabs two cookies from the box and puts them on his desk beside a mug of coffee. “Why don’t you take them to the break room so everyone else can get one as well?”

Sansa smiles demurely, while he stands to give her a big bear hug, and plants a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll see you at family dinner tomorrow, right Sans?”

She nods in time with him and picks up the box to bring it to the break room. As she walks there, she sneaks looks around the bullpen, looking for those soft dark curls and dark stormy-grey eyes she’s come to crave. Something about the way he looks, the way he smells, the way he makes her laugh, it’s simply irresistible. And the fact that they are essentially sneaking around, well that helps too.

She is almost at the break room when a whim strikes her, and she decides to walk down the opposite hallway. It's a long winding corridor with small interrogation rooms on both sides. It’s a quiet day, and as she walks by almost all are empty. Each person she passes in the hall she grins at, and tips the box of cookies towards them. She’s doing a public service here, passing out cookies to everyone, there is no ulterior motive (except there is).

She knows that beat cops don’t get desks like the detectives, and they often sequester themselves in the interrogation rooms to finish up errant paperwork during their lunch hours. She tells herself she’s just trying to bring chocolate-based morale to those poor souls, tells herself that she isn’t hoping _he_ will be in one. She tries not to picture that smoldering gaze he gives her when their eyes first lock each time they meet, tries not to picture his hand on the small of her back, pulling her in for a kiss. She tries not to imagine the smell of him, of his pine aftershave, a faint scent of sandalwood in his hair from his shampoo.

But all of that falls apart when she turns her head to peer into an open room, a dull white light from within flooding into the dim hallway. She catches a glimpse of dark, curly hair pulled back and tied tight, those eyes locking with hers, and her breath catches in her lungs. She knows she should keep her distance as soon as she sees him.

But instead of keeping her distance, instead of remaining in the hallway and proffering him a cookie from afar, she enters the room. She’s drawn in by those eyes, the way his pupils seem to consume his irises, the way his eyebrows are furrowed as he takes in her dress, the way he bites at his lower lip furiously as though the pain of it is the only thing holding him back. And now, now she is sure that nothing good will come of taking another step forward.

She should turn around now and go. But she won’t, for the same reason that she came here in the first place, for the same reason that she let Jon sit beside her at that bar three weeks ago. Whatever this is, the smoldering looks, the way his hands trail down her body, the way he holds her after they fuck, the way he nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck, she’s addicted to it, and it's no better to be safe than sorry.

She takes another step forward into the room, now only feet away from Jon, and his pen has dropped to the table.

“You shouldn’t be here” he growls out, his voice coarse and deep with desire. His eyes are trailing up and down her body, taking in her dress, which cuts off almost inappropriately high on her thigh. He fixates on her hair, which she has pulled into a long side braid that hangs down over her right breast.

“I just came to bring by some cookies” she says dumbly, once more thrusting the box in front of her as though it were armour.

“Cookies” he murmurs softly, slowly, as he pushes his chair out from the desk and stands up.

Now she’s face to face with this man who is somehow even hotter when he’s in uniform, with his hair tied back and in his full kit. His gun sits low on his hip, and it shouldn’t be, but for some reason it’s enticing, thrilling.

The air is so heavy she feels she can’t breathe, and his eyes are staring into her. She’s absolutely sure now that he doesn’t believe her pretext, that he knows exactly why she came. And that’s a surprise to her, because she isn’t even sure why she came, why she’s here, why she’s wearing the dress she knows drives him crazy. Was this supposed to be a challenge? Wasn't her goal here to force his hand?

He takes another step forward, and now he’s so close she can smell him, feel his heat. His hand reaches out and for a minute she thinks he’s going to stroke her cheek, or pull her in for a kiss. Instead though, his hand moves to push the door closed with a click. He walks towards it, and locks the door, then turns back to her. Maybe this was what she really wanted?

“You can’t wear that here” he manages, his hand lifting just slightly to catch the flowing hem of the dress in his fingers. “You can’t come here looking like this. It’s cruel. I think you’re trying to torture me.” His words are severe, but there’s a dark smile on his face, and his eyes are crinkled in amusement in that way that is so uniquely him. She answers him with a small smile, and maybe this _is_ what she actually wanted, because the way he’s looking at her is sending a thrill through her, making her body buzz with anticipation.

His hands move to the box, and he takes it from her hands, placing it on the table. Then his hands move to her waist, pulling her into him, as he leans his back against the table. She allows her hands to move around his neck, bringing herself even closer to him. It’s weird to have her hands around him and not be tickled by his soft curls, and she finds herself tempted to pull the tie out, letting her fingers trail to the back of his head. His own hand catches hers in the act, his strong fingers gripping her wrist.

“It has to be tied back at work and kept under my forage cap. Do you want everyone to know what we’re doing here?”

She pauses, retracts her hand, and tips her head slightly to the side. “What are we doing here?”

“Whatever you’ll let me…” His voice trails off as his hand moves to lightly play with her braid, and she can’t help but shiver under his touch.

She looks from him to the locked door and bites her lip. “We’d have to be quick.”

He lets out a bark of a laugh. “With you in that dress? I assure you, that won’t be a problem.”

And she knows it’s a terrible, truly gods awful idea, but it’s making her blood sing, making her wetter than she has ever been in her life. She wonders if he can see her squeezing her thighs together to relieve the pressure that is building there, but the twitch of amusement in his lips tells her he can see, he knows.

He pulls her tight to him, and she can feel him already half hard, straining against his pants. His lips attack hers, and they’re so soft, but he’s kissing her so hard she knows he’ll leave her own red and swollen afterwards. His tongue dips into her mouth, tasting her, claiming her, and melding with her own. His hands are everywhere, in her hair, on her breasts, under her dress. He lets out a whine of frustration when he finds she’s wearing panties, and she can’t help but giggle into his mouth.

“It was a one time thing, Jon” she whispers into his ear, as he begins to tug down on them, trying to reveal her to him.

“I like you better like that, looking like a pretty girl in these dresses, but knowing you’re wearing nothing underneath, that you’re naughty for me.” His voice is a low rumble, his words nearly nonsensical as he begins to attack her neck with his mouth. Her own hands move to his duty belt, unbuckling it. He takes over and places it carefully in the table, returning to her neck, biting and sucking at it.

She grabs at his hair tightly causing him to groan and pull back reluctantly. “No marks” she hisses, acutely aware of the risk they’re taking, of the fact she’ll have to walk back through that room full of detectives to leave.

He smiles that devious smile of his, and goes back to her neck, albeit kissing and biting lighter than before. It’s like the danger of it is heightening everything they’re doing, like knowing they could get caught is making every single kiss, every brush of his skin against hers electric, and she thinks he feels it too, judging by the way he’s groaning and bucking into her hand cupping his erection.

His fingers loop around the hem of her panties and he lets them drop to the floor. She briefly wonders if it’s actually possible to be dripping wet, having always believed it to be hyperbole. He lets his fingers caress her underneath her dress.

“Fuck Sansa, you’re so wet” he groans into her ear, and she moans in response.

He slides one finger into her, causing her to buck against him, and in a second he flips them around so she is the one braced against the table, holding on for dear life. His eyes are blacker than charcoal, and he's staring at her with lust, and maybe _affection?_ She isn’t sure. 

Her own hands are busying themselves with unbuttoning and unzipping his pants, pulling out his heavy length and lightly stroking it. He bucks against her in enjoyment, his eyes closing momentarily. “Fuck, we shouldn’t be doing this, not here.”

Why is it that him saying that makes her want it more, makes her stroke him harder, makes him groan even louder? She leans close to his ear, and whispers, “Shhh, or they’ll hear us.”

He opens his eyes, pulls her face close to his so their noses are almost touching. “You’ll be the death of me, Sansa Stark.”

With that, Sansa reaches into her purse and grabs the condom she had put there earlier _just in case_, certainly not because she was planning this. It’s his turn now to raise his eyebrow at her, to give her a coy smile, as he takes it and unwraps it over his hard cock.

He pushes her down to lie on the table, hiking her dress up high around her waist, and she’s never felt more exposed or thrilled in her life. She looks up to see him standing there between her legs, his buttoned shirt still on, the badge that says _Snow_ sitting there so prominently on his chest. For some reason, her mind thinks _Sansa Snow_, and she decides she likes the way that sounds.

He eases his cock to her entrance and pushes in slowly, letting her adjust to his girth. It feels so good to be so filled, so consumed by him that she doesn’t have to think about anything but the way he makes her feel. His body leans over her, and she loops her legs around him for increased friction, causing him to sink even deeper within her. She moans loudly, causing them both to pause momentarily for fear of someone hearing them. He leans down close to her ear, his breath hot and heavy against her neck. “You need to be quieter, or we’re going to get caught.”

But his words only have the opposite effect, causing her to mewl and squirm under him. It’s the knowing that they could be caught at any minute, that this is dangerous and bad, and that all those eyes will be on her as she walks out that makes every thrust of him into her feel twice as good, brings her closer to her own peak.

She lets her hands grip his biceps through his shirt, lets her fingernails dig in to help ease the feeling of it all being too much, too good, and she has to be quiet. His face is strained as he looks at her, and she knows he’s feeling it too. He picks up his pace, pounding so hard into her that the table legs are squeaking slightly, and she knows her cheeks must be flushed from the sounds, from the effort of trying to stay quiet. His hand reaches down to her clit, and he begins to trace out an imperceptible but tantalizing pattern.

“I need you to peak for me” he whispers in what is almost more of a low growl. And it’s all so much that his words undo her, and she can feel her body clenching around him, feel herself reaching up over the peak and falling, like sparks catching into flame.

He slaps his hand over her mouth to quiet her as he picks up his pace even faster, so hard it almost hurts. He comes with a deep groan, letting his body relax into hers.

After, they are dressing, and he’s putting his duty belt back on. She’s still sitting on the table, letting her legs dangle over the edge as she’s watching him dress himself. He gives her that familiar smile. “Do I still meet your stringent criteria, Sansa?”

She lets out a breathy laugh and pulls him towards her, sharing a kiss with him. When he pulls away, her eyes flit to the door and she notices something just above it.

It's the camera used for recording interviews.

Normally it should be off when there’s no interview happening.

Except, there’s this red light on, and it’s flashing intermittently.

Sansa’s heart stops, she feels a cold shiver fall down her body, feels her face fall into one of abject horror as she stares at the red light. The way it’s blinking is almost sardonic, a mockery of her. 

Jon looks from her to where her gaze is fixed, and his own face pales, his mouth gaping open and closed like a fish.

“Jon,” she manages to squeak, “What’s that red light mean?”

He’s shaking his head and muttering _fuck, fuck, fuck _under his breath, trying to pull all his clothes back on as quick as possible, as though that could help anything now.

“Oh gods, oh gods, fuck. It means we need to find that tape. _Now._ It also means I’m filing paperwork tomorrow to switch divisions, if I'm not already dead by then.”

Sansa giggles with a hectic kind of hysteria. “Just don’t switch to 13 division, that’s where my brother Robb works.”

He groans and buries his face in his hands, making this dry, hoarse laugh that sounds more like a cough.

\------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thank you to @Titania_Queen_of_the_Fairies for giving me the idea of incorporating Robb into this =D


	4. For Your Eyes Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa go on a mission to get back the recordings before Ned sees them. The next day, Sansa goes to family dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I was done, that chapter 3 would be the last chapter... but here we are!
> 
> Just a little comedy to help you through your day

**Jon**

If you would have told Jon three weeks ago, on that fateful night at that gods awful bar that he’d end up here, now, he probably never would have gone up and said hello to Sansa.

No, that’s a lie. He still would have.

But perhaps he would have gone back and transferred divisions before he defiled the captain’s daughter less than 300 feet from his office. Yes, perhaps _that_ was the bad idea here.

Jon let out another groan, hands planted firmly on the interrogation desk beside Sansa. Her legs were hanging down from the table, milky white and exposed to him, dress riding up dangerously high. He knew he had to focus, to get the recordings deleted before anyone saw, but instead his mind began to wander as he looked at the hem, and the way it inched higher and higher when she crossed her legs. He looked up at her smiling back at him. She was fixing her braid, which he had thoroughly disheveled minutes ago, her lips red and swollen from their kissing.

He smiled back at her, itching to reach out and kiss her again. The past three weeks have probably been the best of his relatively short life, and Sansa Stark may in fact be the perfect woman, or at least perfect for him. They haven’t had _the_ conversation yet, but as soon as he finds a division that one of her relatives isn’t employed at, he plans to ask her to be his girlfriend.

Jon swallows at the thought of that conversation, but Sansa’s face is relaxed and happy–despite their current predicament–and he can’t help but think that’s a good sign. He reaches up to find his hair has come free of his tie, and begins to pull it back, trying to gain back a modicum of composure, which is hard because Sansa is still smiling at him and biting her lip.

“I like it better down,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too, but rules are rules, and I’m already living on a prayer here.” Jon grins, eyeing that dangerously high hem once more, thinking of the way her eyes flutter closed, the way her mouth opens just slightly when she peaks, and the way it makes her clench around him. And he’s thinking if she lets him, he’ll pray to her every day for the rest of his life.

He groans softly, and readjusts himself in his pants, looking up to see Sansa looking incredulously back at him with a raised eyebrow, eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Do you like the idea that we’re about to be caught, Jon?” She asks, and now that she’s said it, he has to admit some deep, dark part of him kind of does.

“Caught by my father… by your boss?” She adds in a somewhat amused tone, and then the gravity of the situation finally hits him.

_Oh… right…_ The blood drains from Jon’s face as he thinks of all the possible repercussions, of what it would be like to be fired from the police force at the not-even-close-to-ripe age of 30.

But the way Sansa is sitting on that damn table in front of him is very distracting, and the way she uncrosses her legs to re-cross them with her other leg is well – also very distracting. He knows she’s just readjusting, but as she does, he gets a peek of those pretty white panties and it’s just too much. If he’s fucked anyway, he may as well go down… well… fucking.

Jon smiles, and walks to Sansa, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He lets his hand fall to her hip, feeling the cotton of her dress in his fingers. “What a way to go though,” he whispers in her ear, “I’d be a fucking legend.” His other hand starts to move in circles up her thigh.

She giggles and pushes him playfully away. “My dad would actually kill you, so you’d be a dead legend.”

“All the best are,” he says, eyes trained on a red mark he accidentally left on her neck. “Johnny Cash, Prince, Freddie Mercury, John Lennon…” With each name, he places a new kiss somewhere on her body, hoping he never runs out of names.

“Jon,” she hisses, “the camera is still on.”

He looks up at the camera, finding the idea strangely enticing. “We’re going to revisit this scenario later,” he murmurs, biting the red mark on her neck again. She leans into him, rubbing herself against his thigh for relief, but the expression on her face is strained, almost begrudging, and Jon knows they need to focus.

“You will be the death of me, Sansa Stark,” he whispers as he finally pulls away from her and readjusts his duty belt.

“No, Robb and my dad will, if we don’t get that recording.”

He nods, looking down at his paperwork, and decides it will have to wait until he gets back. “The server farm is in the back, and we happen to be in luck. My friend Sam handles the IT on this shift.”

She shoots him a queer smile, as though she’s wondering if he’s planned this all, or maybe as though she wants the tape? He makes a mental note to revisit that thought as well. “That is very lucky, indeed, Jon Snow.”

_Lucky would be you not being Captain Stark’s daughter_, he thinks as they both exit the room, and the rush of fresh air in the hallway leaves him acutely aware that they probably both reek of sex. They walk down the hallway briskly–but not so fast as to attract attention–to the server farm, and Jon can’t help but feel like he’s in some cheesy spy movie, on a mission to recover valuable lost jewels or other cargo.

As they walk down the stairs to the basement at the back of the station, his hand reaches behind him to grab Sansa’s. He’s not sure if it’s to support her or for his own benefit, but either way it gives him reassurance to push forward with this terrible plan of theirs. At the end of the basement is a warm, musty room filled with dozens of server towers covered in blinking lights, each locked in its own metal cage. They walk through the dusty rows to the very back where several computer terminals stand, Samwell Tarly seated in front of the centre one.

Above the console are no fewer than a dozen computer monitors, each split further into 4 smaller screens, giving a view of almost every room in the station. Jon’s face pales as he spots one small screen projecting an interrogation table in black and white, papers on the table, and a box of cookies beside them. His face reddens instantly.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” comes the sarcastic voice of Edd, and Jon turns to find both Grenn and Edd staring at them grinning like Cheshire cats.

“That’s putting things mildly, 007,” Grenn parrots back from a movie Jon has never seen. He tries to hide Sansa behind him to save her the embarrassment. To his surprise, he just hears her giggling. Her job isn’t on the line here, so she seems to simply find this predicament endlessly hilarious.

“Shouldn’t you guys be on patrol?” Jon grinds out, eyes narrowing at them.

“Shouldn’t you, Snow?” Grenn shoots back, eyes glancing over to the surveillance screens.

“I was just working on some paperwork over lunch, and…”

Grenn and Edd look at each other snickering, then at Sam–who is red as a tomato–as he begins to type furiously at his console. The next minute, all the screens black out briefly, before blinking back on. Except now, each screen is full of one singular recording, and every screen has that same recording playing back. Jon groans loudly because he would recognize the papers on that desk anywhere.

And sure enough, 15 seconds later, Jon is leaned back against the desk, Sansa standing between his thighs, kissing him. The next second, he has flipped them around, and is starting to lay Sansa’s body down on the table, his own body folding over hers. It feels strangely arousing and surreal to be standing here, watching himself preparing to devour Sansa Stark on CCTV, while they’re both standing here, her small, cool hand wrapped within his.

“TURN THAT OFF NOW!” Jon yells, the tips of his ears red, because he’s knows exactly what will be happening in about two minutes, and gods, these guys have no shame at all do they?

He looks to Sansa, who by all rights should be mortified, but instead she’s just laughing in disbelief at the video. “You have to admit, it’s pretty funny,” she says, her free hand held over her mouth as she laughs.

Sam pauses the recording, rather than turning it off completely. Apparently, he’s no longer Jon’s best friend and has been corrupted by the two perverts standing beside them.

“If that’s what your paperwork is like Jon, I wouldn’t mind being a desk jockey for the rest of my career,” Edd pipes in, causing everyone but Jon to snigger.

Jon can’t help but think that Sansa has the better deal here, because though the camera catches her hair, shining like a bright copper banner, from this angle Jon’s body is almost entirely covering the rest of her, giving her the modesty that he has been denied.

Grenn peels his eyes from the camera, and trains them to Sansa, who Jon has tried to push behind him further for protection, though she doesn’t seem to need or want it. “Aren’t you the girl from the bar a few weeks ago? The one Snow left us for?”

Sansa smiles, and puts her hand out to shake Grenn’s. He smiles and takes the proffered hand. “Name’s Grenn Oxwood, pleasure to meet the girl who can make Snow not be so uptight.”

“Sansa Stark,” she replies, shaking his hand while beaming at Jon.

Sam’s head swivels immediately to Jon, eyes wide open, mouth agape.

“Sansa Stark?!? Jon… Jon… No, you didn’t,” he shrieks out.

“Oy, share with the class, Tarly,” Edd says as he moves to shake Sansa’s hand as well.

Sam continues to stare at Sansa, and Jon feels his ears burning once more. He is vaguely hopeful that his beard may cover the redness on his cheeks, because the gods have to give him something, don’t they?

“She’s the captain’s daughter,” Sam whispers quietly, as though speaking any louder will cause Ned Stark to magically appear. That thought makes Jon look quickly behind him to make sure it isn’t in fact true.

She laughs and squeezes Jon’s hand. “You should put in for that transfer today, don’t you think?”

He nods dumbly, as Edd, Grenn, and Sam gape at him in disbelief.

“I’m just going to go ahead and wipe this from all the drives…” Sam says, as he turns back to the now blackened screens, typing furiously once more. “Can you guys be a bit more careful next time though? I don’t want to have to see this again.”

Grenn and Edd look at Jon and Sansa, then at each other, and burst out laughing again, and all Jon can think is that his transfer can’t be granted fast enough.

\---------

**Sansa**

Sansa had left the station after the recording was deleted as quickly as she could, ducking out the back entrance and into an uber. It wasn’t so much that she was embarrassed, but more so that the longer she stayed the more likely it was she was going to be caught. And she knew she should be embarrassed, but honestly this day was more fun than she’d had in years.

She hadn’t even made it home before she felt her phone buzz with a message from Jon.

**Jon** – I put in the division transfer request

**Jon** – Anywhere but 12 or 13 division ;)

Sansa felt her face breaking into a wide smile and looked up to make sure the Uber driver wasn’t looking at her grinning like a fool. Thankfully, his eyes were trained on the road ahead.

**Sansa **– So, does this mean we’re dating?

**Jon** – Gods, I hope so

**Jon** – I have to get back on the road now, but can I see you tomorrow?

**Sansa** – Tomorrow is family dinner, maybe the day after that?

**Jon** – I would love that, just maybe not at the police station this time

Sansa snorted audibly and saw the Uber driver shift his gaze to look at her in the rearview mirror and stare at her. She dipped her head down and coughed–finally embarrassed–but still grinning.

\--

Family dinner was a big deal in the Stark family, and attendance was mandatory. Though they didn’t always happen with regular frequency (owing to both Robb and Ned’s erratic schedules), when they did happen, they were taken very seriously.

She had arrived earlier in the day to help her mother to prepare the food; standard Sunday dinner fare, even though it was a Thursday. As she had been cutting the tips from the green beans, she had found herself humming a tune she couldn’t quite place but was catchy enough. Her mother looked up from her turkey basting with an amused expression on her face.

“What’s got you in such a good mood, sweetling?” she asked, with just a hint of wryness in her voice.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek. It would be a couple weeks for the transfer to be processed, and she didn’t want to make Jon’s life a living hell before then. “It’s just been a really good few weeks at school,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. One of Catelyn Stark’s eyebrows raised slightly, and her lip twitched, but she said nothing more.

_There’s no way she could know anything_, Sansa thought, turning back to the pile of green beans.

It took another two hours to finish cooking, and before the entire family was seated around the great oak table in the dining room. The table could comfortably seat 18. It had been a custom build, but certainly sent the message that Catelyn and Ned had always extolled; anyone and everyone was welcome at the Stark table (as long as you weren’t defiling their daughters).

Sansa sat at her usual spot around the middle of the table, passing around roasted potatoes. She turned to see her little brother Rickon feeding scraps of turkey underneath the table to his Siberian husky Shaggydog, while Bran looked on shaking his head knowingly.

Robb and his girlfriend Jeyne Westerling sat closer to the head of the table, Robb flanking their father, the venerable Ned Stark. On Jeyne’s other side was Catelyn, carving out pieces of turkey for the table. The turkey, by the way, is perfectly cooked, as always.

Sansa chews thoughtfully as she observes the scene before her. It’s family dinner as it has always been, yet tonight she feels oddly separate from it. She takes a large gulp of wine, wishing she could share this secret with her family, wishing they could all be happy that she’s _finally_ found a good man.

She turns to look at Robb and Jeyne, and sees how happy they are, sharing a bread roll together and leaning into each other. She pictures Jon at the table in a year or two and wonders if Ned and Catelyn will be this accepting of them, or if Jon will be just as dead as the turkey on her plate instead.

Sansa digs into her potatoes and drinks her wine, trying to stay quiet and keep a low profile. Arya kicks her under the table, and looks at her, cocking her head to the side just slightly.

“Is something wrong?” she mouths out.

“No,” Sansa mouths back, but that just makes Arya’s eyes narrow skeptically.

Their father is sitting at the head of the table, plate piled high, looking stern but happy. Ned turns to Catelyn, Sansa in his periphery, and clears his throat. “Sansa did the sweetest thing yesterday, Cat. She brought in cookies for the division. Remember how she used to do that all the time when she was younger?”

Catelyn smiles at her husband, serving herself a big helping of green beans. “I do… You haven’t done that in at least a year though, have you Sansa?”

Sansa feels her cheeks redden, and hides behind her wine glass, tipping it forward to buy herself a minute. A voice in her head says _Hold your head up, keep your head up_, and she tries to, she has to maintain composure.

“Well, I had some free time, and I thought it would be nice,” she manages to choke out, hoping it sounds natural. She looks up to see Arya staring at her, still. Clearly, she’s a terrible liar.

But Ned just nods approvingly, though a small smile creeps upon his face. “How was the rest of your visit, sweetling? I didn’t end up seeing you before you left?”

Sansa chokes quietly on her wine as it goes down her trachea, burning her throat. Her eyes are tearing up, and she’s trying to stop herself from coughing. Arya stifles a laugh.

“Uh, yeah, I peeked around the corner, but you looked busy, so I left,” she manages to croak out.

Ned’s eyes narrow just slightly, and the smile begins to grow, tugging at the corner of his lips –a rarity for him. Robb is looking from Ned to Sansa now, putting his knife and fork down to rest against his plate, as he focuses on the conversation. Sansa gulps, and now even Bran and Rickon are looking at her.

“Later on, I found the box of cookies just sitting in an empty interrogation room. They must have been left there by some officer who was trying to stash them all away for himself, eh?” He says wryly, taking a big gulp of his ale.

Sansa could literally burst into flames with how warm she feels.

“You wouldn’t believe it Robb, one officer on my platoon–Officer Umber–whenever anyone brings in treats, he always hoards them. I bet it was him again, don’t you?”

She breathes a small sigh of relief as Robb nods politely. She takes a sip of water, willing her trachea to stop burning, hoping she has bought a stay of execution.

“Oh and Robb, I found out the funniest thing at work today.”

Sansa’s head snaps back to her father and Robb, who both have the widest grins on their faces, and she tries to sink down lower in her chair.

“What was that, dad?” He asks, but the tone in his voice and the twinkle in his bright blue eyes tells Sansa he already knows the answer.

“Well, one of my best officers–a really good, honourable, young man too by the way–requested a transfer to anywhere but 12 or 13 division… such an odd request, don’t you think?”

“That _is_ an odd request dad. I’ve been at 13 for three years and it’s a great division.” Robb pauses, and takes a long sip of his wine, looking right at Sansa. The entire table is staring at her now, and she can see they’re all smiling. “I can’t think of _any_ reason why anyone wouldn’t want to transfer there.”

Except now, all Sansa can think is that her father just called Jon Snow one of his best officers, as well as good and honourable, and her cheeks are flushed bright red.

Catelyn looks from Robb and Ned, to Sansa, then to Arya who is snickering, and back to Sansa. A sympathetic smile pulls across her face, and she turns to her husband, who seems to be enjoying this just a little bit too much.

“Sansa, maybe it’s just about time I tell you how me and your father met,” she says, smiling knowingly. This time it’s Ned who sputters, a drop of ale dripping down his mouth and chin, in what might be the most un-Ned Stark-like moment she has ever witnessed.

Sansa relaxes slightly and begins to think that despite this hazing, maybe, _maybe_, everything will work out okay.

\--------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come find me on tumblr [here](https://sonderlust45.tumblr.com/), to send me prompts, requests, or to make fun of me for constantly adding chapters to finished stories =)


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